The Fountain of Youth flows through Seattle
by Hijah
Summary: Kolchak teams up with Just Shoot Me's Maya Gallo to hunt a century old killer
1. Default Chapter

THE FOUNTAIN OF YOUTH FLOWS THROUGH SEATTLE

Based on characters created by Jeff Rice and Steven Levitan, and inspired by a screenplay by Richard Matheson

Author's note: This is my first attempt at fan fiction, so please, when you review it, be gentle. Also, to fans of the original 'Night Stalker' series, let me explain something. Were I to maintain the timeline set by the original 1972 movie, the character Carl Kolchak would be the same age as the actor who played him. Thus, as Darren McGavin has, Kolchak would turn 80 this year. Therefore, I have taken the liberty of 'unsticking' Kolchak and company in time to move him up to the present, the time period Just Shoot Me occurs in. Thus, for the purposes of this piece, Carl Kolchak is the age he was in the series (52). Now that that and all the acknowledgements have been taken care of, with apologies to Jeff Rice, Darren McGavin, Steven Levitan, the cast of Just Shoot Me (especially Laura San Giacomo) and everyone else, here we go. Enjoy.

August 9th

8:45 am CST

Every once in a while, my boss, the chronically charmless Anthony Albert Vincenzo, would slip and pretend that he was actually a human being. Today, though, wasn't one of those times. No, this morning, as I stared at him with slackjawed shock at his last statement, I was trying to figure out how I could prove to the cops that the fountain pen that would be embedded in his heart in about five minutes was out of self defense.

"A _fashion _show? You're sending me to cover a _fashion_ show?"

Vincenzo didn't even look up at me. "Not a fashion show, Carl. You are going to New York to cover Blush Magazine's Supermodel convention."

"What the hell did I ever do to you, huh?

With a sigh, Vincenzo removed his reading glasses and now looked up at me.

"I mean, that was bad enough to do this to me?"

"You want the whole list, Kolchak, or just the top ten?"

"Very funny," I sneered at him, "Very funny."

"Now look, Carl. While the thought of you being out of my hair for even a day appeals to me more than anything in my entire life, this isn't my idea. You were requested."

I thought about this. "Requested? By who?"

"None other than Jack Gallo himself."

Had he told me I'd been requested by Joseph Pulitzer himself, I'd have been no more shocked. "Gallo? That nut? Aw, Tony, you can't..."

"I didn't. The request was made to Mister Lewis in New York, who talked to me. Chain of command, Kolchak, simple as that."

"But...but...Jack _Gallo_, Tony. We both know him. Come on, you just _can't_."

Vincenzo leaned back in his chair with an alarmingly satisfied smile.

"You're actually _enjoying _this, aren't you?" I roared at him.

The smile was replaced by an innocent look, the look of a kid who'd stolen his crippled neighbor's wheelchair and was being grilled by the cops about it.

"Who, me? Why would I enjoy it?"

"Who-ho-ho, that's rich." I sneered.

"Hey, I'm sorry, Carl, I really am. There's just nothing I can do about it. My hands are tied."

He looked like he could barely contain his amusement.

"Yeah," I grumbled, "I wish they were. With you staring down a cranky firing squad."

I opened the door to leave, then turned back

"Mark my words!" I said as though I were doing Shakespeare in the Park, complete with extended arm and finger pointed up at the ceiling, "You'll pay for this, Tony Vincenzo! As God is my witness, you will pay!"

The newsroom, I'd noticed, had fallen into abrupt silence at my flowery outburst, listening in to the latest go-round between myself and the dried prune who served as our boss. Taking advantage, I tipped my hat and bowed.

"Thank you, ladies and gentlemen," I told them, "I'll be here all week."

10:15 am

So, here I was. United flight 1000 from Chicago O'Hare to New York Kennedy, bound for a reunion with a man whom I'd knocked out with a well-placed right cross the last time we'd met.

It was about five years ago. I was working for the Las Vegas _Daily News_ then. That was before Janos Skorzeny, back when I only saw shadows but didn't know what lurked in them. 

It had been at one of the casinos, I don't remember which one. Gail and I had decided to go out on the town and to a casino where she didn't work. I remember she wanted to see one of the shows. 

I guess Gallo was in between marriages at the time, or something, but he decided to make a play for Gail that night. She said no, but he'd made one more try, so I did what any sensible man would do. I punched a multi-millionaire dead in the face. He fell like a poled ox and Gail and I took off before the law showed up. We laughed the whole night at the shocked expression he had on his face as he hit the floor, as if he hadn't expected someone in a cheap suit and beat up Panama hat to drop him like that.

Needless to say, a camera caught us and I had plenty of explaining to do to DA Paine, Chief Masterson and, maybe worst of all, Vincenzo. After all, all Paine and Masterson could do was lock me up. Tony Vincenzo could fire me. Ultimately, the result was that I went on vacation (suggested by the paper's publisher) and Gallo never made a case out of it. By the time I'd returned, there were more important things to deal with.

The sky outside my window was blue and clear. I didn't care. All the old feelings came back and I cursed everyone. Paine, Masterson, Sheriff Butcher and Gallo. Especially Gallo, for making me remember it. Perhaps that was the worst of all. Damn Jack Gallo and his idiot magazine.

Damn him.

11:30 am

I arrived at Kennedy on time and, grabbing my bag, set out from the terminal to find a cab. My search ended just after it began, when I noticed a large man in a black and white chauffeur's uniform holding a sign that read 'Kolchack'. I guessed that was for me.

"Kolchak?" I asked.

"That you?" he responded.

"Probably. The name's misspelled, though. Only one 'c'."

He shrugged. "Mr. Gallo sent me. He asks that I drive you to your hotel and then up to his office. He wants to talk to you."

"Yeah, I bet he does."

The hotel turned out to be the Westcott Tower on Broadway, one of the newest and most luxurious in town. Greeted by a tall, well dressed man with the worst dye job I'd ever seen, he handed me my little credit-card like key and shooed me up to my room, number 1145. After a brief battle with the machine that locked my room (God, I miss keys), I opened up the door into a place larger than my apartment in Chicago. The Bears could have run drills in it and never touch a wall.

I had about a half hour before my meeting with Gallo, so I stretched myself out on the bed, pulled my hat over my eyes and dozed off, wondering what, exactly, Jack Gallo had in mind. And if I hit him again, would he buy me a car?

12:35 p.m.

After presenting my credentials to the security guard at the front door of the building where the magazine kept its main offices, I rode up to the seventh floor. The door opened up on a green wall behind an unmanned reception desk. The wall announced that the floor was occupied by: BLUSH MAGAZINE, A DIVISION OF THE GALLO CORPORATION

I wondered for a moment if there was anything else in the Gallo Corporation, then walked around the corner to where the offices seemed to be. I came across a large room with a few men and women, I guessed Blush staff members, typing away on computers, doing the work of publishing about two hundred pages of advertisements and seven or so pages of actual stories. To my right stood a small man with a head of unruly blond hair, also typing away on a computer, with a look of extreme disinterest.

"Excuse me."

The man looked over the top of the laptop's screen and gave me the once over with an equally bored expression.

"Fashion don'ts down the hall," he said to me before returning to his 'work'.

"Huh? No, I have an appointment to see Mister Gallo. My name is Kolchak."

He looked at me again, then said, "Just a minute", before disappearing into the office behind him. He returned after a second and told me, "Go on in."

Jack Gallo was just as I remembered him, except for upright and conscious. He was a little heavier than I remembered, a little more wrinkled, with thinning curly brown hair and the general look of a man who knew he was well off and liked to look the part. I guessed he probably had himself a trophy wife somewhere, but that was just a guess.

"Carl Kolchak," he said, rising from behind his desk, "How are you?"

He was in a tailored vest, black and matching his slacks and tie, and white shirt. The image was completed by a pocket watch on a gold chain that stretched across his stomach. We shook hands.

"I'm fine," I answered, feeling out of place in my blue shirt, red tie, khaki pants and white sportcoat. I was holding my hat, lest the Blush Fashion Security team throw me out for being completely out of style.

"Please," Gallo told me, "Have a seat."

I took the chair across the desk from me as he moved over to a bar against the wall behind me.

"Care for a drink?"

"No, no, thank you."

He poured himself one, then returned to his seat behind the desk.

"How long has it been now...two years?"

"Three," I answered, "Not since Las Vegas."

"Ah, yes, Las Vegas. I had a hell of a time there."

"Yeah, I remember that." I answered.

"How is she now...what was her name..."  
"Gail."

"That's right, Gail. How is she?"

"I don't know. I haven't seen her in about three years since they threw me out of there."

He looked confused. "What do you have to do to get kicked out of Vegas?"

"Try to tell the truth."

He thought about this a minute, then gave up with a shrug.

"Anyway, Carl...may I call you Carl?"

I shook my head. "No."

"Carl," he continued, ignoring my sour expression as much as he had my answer, "I have an idea that I think you'd be perfect for.

"We have this 'Supermodel Summit' going on here this week, and I was thinking, 'y'know, wouldn't it be interesting if we had an outsider's view of all this'. Y'know, someone not in the business. Their thoughts, their views."

"Ah," I nodded, "You think that up all by yourself?" It just slipped out, but he didn't seem to notice the tone.

"Yeah, and I kinda figured," he continued unabated, "Who could be farther on the outside of a supermodel convention than a crime reporter from Chicago?"

I just sat there and looked at him. "There are hundreds of crime reporters in Chicago," I finally said, "Why me?"

"Why not?"

Couldn't argue with that logic. "OK."

"Great. Since you're kinda new in the fashion world, I'm gonna pair you off with our articles editor, Maya. Dennis!"

The blond guy from the front appeared. "You called me, oh master and signer of my paychecks?"

"Could you hook Mister Kolchak up with Maya, please?"

"I can try," he answered dryly, "But he doesn't seem her type."

"I mean take him over to her office and introduce them?"

"Oh, yeah. C'mon."

I stood up and left the office with Dennis behind me.

"Ah," he suddenly said, "Sneakers. Nice touch."

"I run a lot." I answered.

We crossed the large outer room to the far corner from Gallo's office to a door marked MAYA GALLO, ARTICLES EDITOR

"Gallo?" I asked, pointing to the door.

"Yeah," Dennis answered in the dry tone, "The rich guy's daughter."

He knocked and a voice from inside called out, "Come in."

She was sitting behind a smaller version of her father's desk, reading over copy before her. She was a pretty woman, long, dark hair, cat like face, wearing a white blouse and chewing on a pencil.

"Maya, this is Carl Kolchuck..."  
"Kolchak."

"Yeah, whatever. Jack sent him over for this 'outside looking in' thing of yours."

"Thank you, Dennis."

"Yours?" I asked when Dennis left, "This is your idea?"  
"I suppose my father made it sound like his idea," she answered.

"Well, yes, he did."

"It figures. That's the way he's always been, Mister Kolchak. Just like he told me you and he were best friends in Las Vegas."

"Well, I wouldn't exactly call us 'best' friends..."

"Have a seat, Mister Kolchak."

I took a seat. The chairs in Jack Gallo's office were more comfortable.

"I'm sure he ran through what the idea is for this piece."

"Yeah, I guess. He said he pretty much wants me to write my take on this whole supermodel thing."

Before she could answer, the door flew open and a brunette scarecrow flew in.

"Maya, you have to..."

She caught sight of me and her face took on the expression of someone who'd stepped in a cowpie.

"Ugh, what is that?"

"You're Nina Van Horn," I said, rising from my seat, "The model."

"Supermodel, please," she corrected me with a smile and a hand through her hair, "But what's in a title, anyway?"

"Nina, this is Carl Kolchak, INS News. He's going to be helping cover your supermodel summit for us."

"My boss is a big fan of yours," I chuckled, "Wait till I tell Tony Vincenzo I met Nina Van Horn."

She suddenly grabbed the corner of Maya's desk.

"Vincenzo?" she muttered, "Anthony Vincenzo?"

"Yeah, that's him." My face turned serious. "You know him?"

"Why, no," she answered, the model back, "Why do you ask?"

"I suppose the 'Camille' scene had something to do with it." Maya answered.

"Well, anyway, now I've forgotten what it was I wanted to see you about, Maya. If you'll excuse me, Mister Kolchak."

We watched her leave as I tried to take in what just happened. Nina Van Horn, supermodel and legend, Tony Vincenzo, super wet blanket and...well, not a legend? No, it couldn't be. Could it?


	2. Chapter Two

A/N: Well, here it is, whether you want it or not, the second chapter of our exciting adventure. We've upgraded to PG this time out due to a fight scene. I've already acknowledged that this story is based on characters created by Jeff Rice and Steven Levitan and inspired by a screenplay by Richard Matheson in the first chapter, but it never hurts to do it again. So, with that, here we go.

Well, so far it seemed like an easy assignment. All I had to do was to sit down, shut up and tape. Then, at the end of the week, I just sort it out, write my humble opinion on it, and hand it in to an attractive woman. Simple, right? I thought so, too.

Then the nightmare began. It started for me the night I arrived.

August 9th

8:45 p.m.

Her name was Penelope Wilkins. If she was born with that name or just picked it up along the way I didn't know, but when you looked like Penelope Wilkins, it didn't matter. As the man said, 'A rose by any other name smells just as sweet'. She was twenty-four years old, nearly six slender feet in height, with shoulder length blonde hair and the face of a blue eyed angel. She was perfect for anyone who enjoyed staring for the rest of their lives at a beautiful statue. I was enamored of her the moment she sat down beside me, sent over by Nina Van Horn for an interview, up until the moment she commented, "Kolchak. That's a funny name. Is it Spanish?"

I stared at her for a moment, trying to figure out how she figured Kolchak was Spanish.

"Ah, no," I answered, smiling, "It's Romanian, actually."

She stared blankly at me.

"Romania. It's in Europe."

With wide eyes and an overly dramatic nod of her ungodly beautiful head, she figured it out. "Oh. Well, Mister Coldcuts, how do you like America?"

At that moment, my tape recorder stopped. I think it was the machine's way of throwing up its hands and walking away. I smiled at her and wished to myself I could do the same thing, but I soldiered on bravely.

"No, the name is Romanian. I'm from Chicago."

The blank stare came at me again.

"It's in Illinois," I tried.

Nothing.

"Oprah's from there."

The nod returned, then she stopped and stared at me as if I'd sprouted wings or done something else beyond her comprehension, like long division.

"You know Oprah?"

I wanted to cry. Thankfully, Van Horn appeared.

"Now, now, Mister Kolchak," she said lightly, "You can't monopolize all of Penelopie's time."

The stare returned, and I wondered which long word had confused her, 'monopolize' or 'Penelope'.

"Isn't she cute?" Van Horn said, pinching her cheeks, "Now run along, dear. Go speak to that nice young man from Cosmo."

"OK. Nice meeting you, Mister Coatchek."

"Kol..." I started to correct her, but realized the futility of it and simply waved.

"Well, well, well, Mister Kolchak," Van Horn began, sitting at the bar beside me, "How are you enjoying yourself?"

"I'm doing OK," I told her, "Say, I hear this was your idea."

"Well, yes," she said with fake modesty, "My idea. What do you think?"

"What made you think of it?"

"Well, it was actually my friend Binnie who suggested that I bring together some of the top models to talk about their experiences," she confessed, "She suggested it right before she went down to Uruguay for her pigment transplant. Anyway, I took it one step further and decided to bring in the photographers and writers."

She gave my suit the once over, then said with a slightly sickened expression, "You were Maya's idea."

I looked across the room at Maya Gallo, talking with a tall, balding man in a tux. She was wearing a brown dress that, while conservative compared to some of the outfits in the room, still did a great job accenting Ms. Gallo's natural curves.

"Well, then," I said, raising my glass of scotch in her direction, "Here's to my reason for being here."

She caught my gesture and lifted her fluted glass towards me, bringing a look from the man she was with. He gave me a glance over his shoulder, then returned to his discussion.

"Who's the guy with her?" I asked.

"That's Elliot. Elliot DiMauro, the magazine's photo editor and Maya's former fiancee."

"Former, huh?"

"Yes, poor Elliot. Fearing commitment, he ran for his life rather than marry the woman."

I finished my glass and waited for the bartender to fill it, then raised it again and said, "Well, then, here's to idiots."

As I took my drink, I caught sight of Dennis Finch standing at the door leading out of the room to the bathrooms. As I watched, Penelope Watkins, supermodel, swayed past him. He appraised her passing with a cocked brow and slight leering smile, then, with a quick glance to make sure he wouldn't be missed, he pivoted out the door after her.

"That Finch guy," I asked, "He have a chance with her?"

She laughed a low, throaty, frighteningly seductive laugh. "Dennis Finch? He wouldn't stand a chance with any woman if he were the last fertile man on earth."

"Maybe I'll go catch the fun of her rejecting him."

I left Van Horn, crossed the room and walked towards the bathroom. I wish now that her slapping him was all I'd have seen.

I had just left the ballroom, stepping foot in the lobby of the building that housed Blush's corporate offices. It was a giant lobby, marble and gold dominated by a large jade representation of Venus' birth from the spray of the ocean between me and the bathrooms, where I spotted Finch observe his quarry enter the restroom, then take position at the water fountain mounted on the wall separating the doors of the mens and womens rooms. 

I'd decided to stroll up and watch the show when I heard the scream, the scream of a woman dying. Dennis heard it as well and threw open the door only to be suddenly and forcefully tossed aside, bouncing off a wall with a sickening thump and dropping to the floor. From the bathroom emerged a figure dressed in black, from fedora to shoes, except for the bandages he (she? it?) wore around the head, which were pale white and stained.

The figure came towards me with cheetah-like speed, too fast for me to get out of the way. No matter, as the figure grabbed my collar in its hands and lifted me off the ground. I might have suffered the same fate as Finch if not for the appearance of a large man in a suit and tie. The security guard at the desk near the front doors had seen Finch's flight and arrived in time to prevent mine, wrapping his arms around the figure's neck and prompting it to drop me. I fell with a 'thump' to the floor at the figure's feet and watched the rest of the scene play out.

The guard had a brief advantage, holding his chokehold long enough for two more guards to rush up to help. Instead, the figure planted its feet and shouldertossed the guard into the others, then taking off. Another guard got in its way and was shoved aside like a sack of clothes. Yet another guard, this one uniformed and carrying a blackjack, ran up and used it, knocking the hat off and revealing a bald head with patches of gray hair. For his indiscretion, the guard was raised up off the ground by his throat and choked. By this time two of New York's finest had arrived and rushed in, nightsticks raised. They delivered two crushing blows to the figure's head that the figure simply ignored, throwing the guard's lifeless body down and running off. The cops took off in pursuit. I followed the herd across the lobby, staying at a safe distance.

Two more cops had arrived now and again tried to level the figure with their nightsticks, but by now it was annoyed and KO'd them with exactly one right cross and one backhand. One of the more short-tempered ones drew his pistol and fired a shot at the fleeing figure. Whether it hit or not, I couldn't tell, but I knew it didn't slow it down. Soon it was out the door and down the street, a squadcar in pursuit, sirens wailing. Two cops, the original two to arrive on the scene, had made it to their feet, pushed me aside and jumped in another car, following the first. By the time I got outside, the scene had calmed down. Not seeing anyway to follow it, I returned inside as more cars of the NYPD arrived to secure the scene of chaos inside.

I got back to the bathrooms where the carnage had begun, and fought my way through the gathering mob of onlookers to the front. Dennis Finch lay on the floor in front of the mens restroom, where he'd landed. He seemed to be breathing, but hadn't moved. Maya Gallo and Elliot DiMauro were talking to him but despite the brave words, their eyes had the look of worry. He was hurt more than they wanted to admit, even to themselves. I heard crying in the womens room and entered. 

Inside stood Jack Gallo and Nina Van Horn. Gallo glanced at me as I entered. He was holding Van Horn, who was sobbing hysterically at the sight on the floor.

Poor Penelope Wilkins. Now she'd never learn where Chicago was.

As I looked down, I noticed something on her neck. I knelt down to get a better look, and when I saw what it was I felt a cold shudder run down my spine. It was more instinct than desire to know that made me search the base of her skull. It was there, just as I feared.

I looked around at the faces, Jack Gallo's, Nina Van Horn's, those of the cops who were now clearing us out of the crime scene. I wondered what was more terrifying, not realizing what was at work, or realizing it, but not believing it.

As I was escorted back into the lobby, only one thing was on my mind, and I was repeating it as if to convince myself of it.

_It couldn't be him. I saw him die._


	3. Chapter Three

__

A/N: After months of delays, here is chapter three. I have to admit, due to lack of interest, I'd given up on going on with this, but it seems that, on other websites on the net, there's a bit of a Kolchak revival going on. Not one to avoid jumping on any apparent bandwagon headed in my general direction, here I am back to work on my warped little Carl Kolchak meets Maya Gallo piece. I warn you all, it's short and not my best work by far, but I hope I'll be all warmed up for chapter four. Needless to say I do not own any of these characters. They belong to (now follow along) Jeff Rice, Richard Matheson, ABC-TV, Universal Television, Steven Levitan, NBC-TV, Sony Pictures Television and Brillstein-Grey Entertainment (I believe, I'm not sure JSM belongs to BGE anymore).

The Fountain of Youth Flows Through Seattle

Based on characters created by Jeff Rice and Steven Levitan and inspired by a screenplay by Richard Matheson

August 9th

9:30 p.m.

The parade may have pulled out, but the circus had just begun. The moment the word first hit the police airwaves about a murder at Blush Magazine's Supermodel Summit, the New York news media mobilized. It hadn't taken long for them to encamp en masse in the lobby. Knowing they weren't going to be left alone to scratch their heads and wonder where the killer had run off to unless they made a statement, the NYPD organized a brief, yet uninformative, news conference at the feet of the Venus fountain. Presiding over the session was one Lt. Jeremy Ingersoll, a tall, thin man with a hard, square face, cold grey eyes and jet black hair.

"Naturally," he answered a TV man's question, "We are withholding confirmation until next of kin is notified, hopefully, some time tomorrow afternoon."

"Can you tell us how she died?" another talking head asked.

"It appears to be strangulation, but the medical examiner will be able to tell you more."

"Have there been any similar murders in the area recently?" I asked.

The cold glare fixed on me. "In what way, Mister..." 

"Kolchak, INS. I mean strangulation where a syringe was used to draw off blood from the base of the victim's skull?"

He glared at me with a false smile designed to send me whimpering back behind the cameras. Having been glared at by the best, it did nothing, so he answered, "As I said, we aren't ready to speculate about any aspect of this case until the medical examiner's report. Thank you all."

Once the conference broke up, I turned to walk away when I felt a hand fall on my shoulder.

"Mister Kolchak," Ingersoll said, "I haven't seen you before. New here?"

"I'm from Chicago usually. My news service sent me here to cover this supermodel thing, so I guess you could say I'm on assignment to Blush Magazine."

"Ah. I see. Tell me, how did you know about the syringe?"

"I saw it."

He put his hands in his pockets and rocked back on his heels. "Hmm. And how was it you knew to look for it?"

I had a cold feeling where this was headed. "Hey, wait a minute. You don't think that I..."

"How long have you been in New York, Mister Kolchak?"

"I arrived this morning. Go ahead, check it out."

"Oh, we will, Mister Kolchak. For a day or two, I'd like you to remain in town. Just routine, I assure you."

I nearly laughed in his face. "Look, Lieutenant, do yourself a favor. Put in a call to the police in Seattle, Washington. Ask for a Captain Roscoe Schubert, and ask him about Pioneer Square. I'm sure he'll tell you all about it."

"Now why would I want to do that?"

"Because maybe then you'll realize what you're up against."

The whole post-briefing encounter with Ingersoll cleared up one of my questions with a frightening answer--Penelopie Wilkins had not been the first. They wouldn't have wondered how long I'd been in Manhattan if she had. I also knew that I wasn't supposed to know about the puncture wound. What I didn't know was why I just didn't tell him about Richard Malcolm or my connection to him and his final reign of terror, outside of wanting to have him hear it from another cop. That and pure stubbornness over being accused of murder. In any event, it was now a race against time and I knew that, with or without help, and whoever this killer was, I had less than eighteen days to stop them.

__

I know, it's not very long or very good, but it's just a way to get me from here to the next chapter, so please be gentle when you review this...please? Chapter four is coming soon, I promise.


End file.
